


Celnene

by Lif61 (UltimateFandomTrash)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fae & Fairies, Healing, High Fantasy, Hypothermia, Illnesses, Implied Mpreg, M/M, Magic, Magical Deals, Mpreg, Near Death, Non-Graphic Smut, Peril, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28438158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UltimateFandomTrash/pseuds/Lif61
Summary: Fae and humans have been separated since the wars centuries ago. Yet, Castiel finds himself drawn to one particular human, and upon Sam  Winchester falling ill, his older brother Dean, finds himself searching for help in forbidden places.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Destiel
Comments: 8
Kudos: 34





	Celnene

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maleyah (Katherine_Kat)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katherine_Kat/gifts).



> Hi, Maleyah! I finally got this done. I realized after writing this that it probably could've been fine if it wasn't high fantasy, but oops! High fantasy happened. I'm so sorry I hadn't gotten this done on time. I have COVID, so finding the energy or focus to write has been incredibly difficult.
> 
> Okay, y'all, so Maleyah asked for a fic where Castiel is fae, and Dean goes to him to make a deal to help either Sam or Mary who is dying of sickness. The deal is Dean's first born, and Dean asks Castiel when they are going to get started. Earlier in Dean's life, he and Castiel met because Castiel used to watch over him. However, Dean cannot remember him.
> 
> I've never written a fic like this before, but I have read more high fantasy books than I can count and I hope I made the tropes work, so hopefully this turned out all right.
> 
> Please enjoy!
> 
> If you need notes/information on the names in this, go to the notes at the end.

The baby was crying. The beautiful, blond-haired baby with green eyes was crying, and both parents had left him there in the cabin alone. Their intentions hadn’t been evil, seeing as the mother had gone to hunt for food, and the father had gone to the market to sell furs in exchange for something to eat other than meat. Castiel understood why they hadn’t brought the baby along. Even the trek to the market could be dangerous. Castiel had been there before, wearing a glamour so as to hide from the humans. He found that he enjoyed watching them, even though these people would kill him if they knew who, and what, he was. They’d see his sharp canines, and his pointed ears, his perfect skin, and ethereal glow, and they’d shoot and stab him full of iron.

Usually, most of them weren’t violent to other humans, not as severely as some had been during the wars centuries ago. There were a number, however, who belied that simple fact. Bandits were on the roads, ready to take advantage of helpless townsfolk. A few ex-soldiers wandered, taking their anger out at being dismissed from the army on the people there, and bullying them for money.

So no, a baby wouldn’t have been able to be brought along, despite the sure amount of kindness he would find.

As for friends? Castiel was sure the two parents of this baby didn’t have any that could watch their six-month old. He knew because, well, for some reason he had had his eye fixed upon them for years. He just felt… drawn to them, particularly when the mother had become pregnant.

Once they’d had the baby, they’d taken extra precautions, making weapons of iron. Some were still in the house, but if they didn’t touch Castiel, he would be fine. Would the parents return in time to make an attempt at ending his life? No, the chances of that were slim. Even now he could smell the scents of the parents fading, and they hadn’t renewed. They were getting farther away.

That baby boy was still crying. At six months old he was able to eat mashed food, and he was becoming a little less helpless. Still, he was a baby, and for now, he was all alone in the world.

Castiel came down from his perch on the tree, jumping easily to the ground fifteen feet below and landing on his feet, strong bones and legs easily taking the impact.

As he walked towards the cabin, idly flicking out his power behind him to brush the snow and obscure his tracks, he raised his hand, and he _pushed_ , letting his power pulse outwards. The latch unhooked, the door swinging open slightly. Cold air rushed in ahead of him, and a flurry of snow swept across the mat inside the door. Not wanting the baby to get too cold, Castiel hurried in, taking care to close the door behind him.

The baby didn’t seem hungry when he swept a discerning hand that glowed gold over his body. He was fine. However, he was… lonely.

Castiel, feeling warmth in his chest, picked up the baby, and started bouncing him. For some reason he started telling him about the wars, telling him of the dark fae the humans had helped battle off, and then, in a stroke of mistrust, had turned on the fae that had helped them. The battles had killed more humans than fae, and Castiel, acting as a highlord beneath the reign of his father, the highprince, had been able to convince them to turn away. He left out the gory details, of course, but he told the story of how their peoples had separated, and how some fae still cared about the humans. Too many years had passed for the humans to remember what had happened, and those who weren’t royal or wealthy could barely read. Even then, most humans saw the word _Fae_ and turned away from it, even if that word was on a history book.

Despite their ignorance, Castiel found them interesting. But not as interesting as the baby boy he was bouncing on his knee. The baby, whose name he’d caught a few months ago—Dean—was now gurgling instead of crying. He looked up at Castiel with the greenest of eyes. One of his little hands fisted in Castiel’s silvery-white cloak.

“Yes, it’s all right, Dean,” he told him. “It’s all right. You’re safe.”

Castiel stayed with Dean till he heard the parents arriving home.

They didn’t even know he had been there.

✥

_**FOUR YEARS LATER** _

Castiel had work to do as a highprince. In his opinion, it was _boring_ work. Most of it was politics between the different courts in the realm in an attempt to postpone another war. Along with that, there were ledgers to keep a decent account of, new guards to choose for his retinue, overseeing commerce—which, to his dismay, included strong drinks that were so punctuated with alcohol they could easily double as cleaning fluid. The alcohol hadn’t made its way to the nobles of his court, but he was aware of its circulation through the slums in the lower depths of his city.

Castiel’s city was Taivakel, built atop a towering mountain. His palace resided at the top; a thing of marble, and gold, and diamond. The city then grew out in a circle all around the mountain, many of the buildings made of smoothened white stone. Different sections of the mountain had been carefully segregated. Though, in the past century, Castiel had had the walls separating them knocked down. He did not want his people to be divided. In part because he cared about them, but he also knew that a divided people could plant animosity among his citizens, and dangerous things could happen. Rebellion—though that hadn’t happened since his father was highprince—civil wars, higher criminal activity.

With this new system, the different quarters had begun to merge with each other, and Castiel quite enjoyed it. The reports he received from his lords and advisors relayed that the people did as well.

Castiel’s people were all fae. The lesser ones, without powers, had been pushed to the bottom of the mountain. They lived in small, wooden shacks and crowded apartments. They had created a black market centuries ago as an attempt to get by. Another highprince, one of whom he was acquainted with—Corvalend, the highprince of Aardess—tried to curtail his worries about the lesser folk. He claimed that they were lesser for a reason, reminding him of the fact that they lacked magic.

Still, Castiel was trying to help; setting up donations, attempting to send builders to fix up the homes, lowering the taxes, and sharing goods. Some for free, some at a lower price. Despite his attempts, he had received quite a bit of backlash from the non-magic folk in his city. They claimed they did not want the help of a highprince who surely looked down upon them, and they insisted that they did not need his help. They had been self-sufficient for four centuries now, and claimed that their ways of life could not be changed. Still, he tried. He desperately tried, caring about all his people.

Then, of course, there were the religious zealots of Dawn’s Children. _Dawn_ was supposedly a representative of the dawn of a new age, in which humans and fae would live together. To most, it was blasphemy. Castiel was not very religious, but he welcomed the idea of merging with the humans. However, sharing that would make him very unpopular with his people. 

Dawn’s Children took in all kinds. They preached in thick robes, collected followers, kept their heads unshaven. To appease them, Castiel had appointed their high priestess as one of his advisors.

Many of Dawn’s Children were tame, gentle, but problems quickly arose whenever they wandered into human territory. Which they did quite frequently.

They wished to mate with them, seeing as they had found ways for two beings of the same sex to mate and create life. In the city, that secret was guarded carefully. However, the work of Dawn’s Children never seemed to come to fruition. Many of the members who delved into the human kingdoms did not return. During their first foray, Castiel’s father had sent a battalion of troops after them, even requesting that Castiel lead them. He had declined, and without his leadership, only half the troops had returned. His father blamed him, as Castiel did himself.

Quite frequently he found himself venturing into the human realm in secret, as he had a few years ago when drawn to that baby. His only creed was to explore, observe, and not interact. Yet, he felt pulled to the child, and often walked through doorways of light to the human realm. He would do this at night, while tasking one of his lords or trusted advisors to watch over the city in his stead. Perhaps the time for another visit was drawing near.

✥

_**TWO AND A HALF YEARS LATER** _

The day had been grueling. Highprince Castiel had undertaken a building project in the lower quarter. Though his identity had remained hidden till an hour or two into his work, he was eventually found out, and vitriol was flung his way. Still, Castiel worked, whether these fae wanted him to or not. This was his duty. To serve, protect, lead. If he could not do what he would ask of someone else, then in his eyes he would have failed as a highprince.

Castiel let out a deep sigh as he now settled down into the hot water filled nearly to the brim in his deep-set, marble tub. There was a ledge to sit on when one did not want to be fully submerged.

The ledge was where he rested for now, sore from his day’s work. Eventually, he soaped up his body, washing away the sweat, and grime that had collected on him. After dunking into the water to rinse away the soap, servants toweled him dry. They attempted to dress him in his night clothes, and Castiel dismissed them, a fluffy towel wrapped about his hips.

He perused his wardrobe, opting for dark clothing. He donned a black silk tunic with a deep _v_ cut down the center, and silvery embroidery on the cuffs, black leather pants, paired with fur-lined boots, a vest for partial warmth, and a cloak.

Fall had come, and he did not want to get cold on his travels.

Castiel waved his hand, widening a doorway of golden light. He stepped into it.

✥

Dean was playing in the forest. It was evening, the sky that dull gray before the sun lowered beyond the horizon and surrendered the world to starry night.

Dean was seven years of age now, and he was receiving some schooling. His little brother was three years of age. Dean couldn’t wait to take him out in the woods to play with him. All his brother Sam seemed to be able to do for now was play with the wooden toys their father had carved for Dean some years ago.

Sometimes, against his mother’s will, Dean traveled into town. Whilst there he came to know that his patched together clothing, originally taken from his father’s trunk after his death, was a sign of poverty. With one parent, they were not very well off.

Now, he played in the woods; he had found a giant stick, and was whacking a tree with it. He moved into different stances, ones he had come up with in his head, and had convinced himself that the soldiers used.

Light broke through the twilit sky, and Dean gripped his stick hard, heart pounding. What was that?

Then he saw a tall shadow through that golden glow, and Dean ran to hide behind a thick ash tree he had taken to climbing a year ago.

Poking his head around, he saw the shadow step out of the light and materialize into a man. He was dressed in black, his tan skin inhumanly smooth, dark hair immaculate, and—

Dean hid behind the tree again, gasping, breathing hard.

The man was fae!

Dean had seen the pointed ears. Did he have fangs too?

The fae male stepped so lightly that Dean hadn’t even heard him approach, and—

He rounded the tree Dean was hidden behind. At his discovery, Dean’s instincts told him to drop his stick, to run. Yet, there was something deeper inside of him. An excitement, a thrill of some sort. Dean ran at the fae male and cried out, swearing, “Get back! Get back! You don’t belong here, you damned Inenuan rubbish!” as he beat at his legs and lower abdomen with his stick.

Eventually, he tired, and when he stepped away, panting, shaking fingers scraped from bark, still holding onto his stick, he looked up into the face that observed him. He saw blue eyes, a strong jaw, nearly too-pink lips, and eyes as blue as the Clear Lake a few miles away. Mary and Dean had made the trek before; Mary with Sam bundled up against her chest. Dean was reminded of those waters when he looked into those eyes. Blue, cold, perhaps even empty.

No, emptiness was not what lay there. Just something different, something he could not recognize. After all, he _was_ fae.

The fae male reached out, and took Dean’s stick. Dean trembled.

“You know,” he said in a low, gravelly voice, sharp teeth flashing as he examined the stick, “if you stripped this of bark, whittled it down, and sharpened the edge, it would be a more effective weapon.” 

He handed it back to Dean, and Dean just stared, mouth dry. He licked his lips. 

“Your form was off as well,” he commented. Then Dean was sure his heart had stopped because that thing, that being, was touching him. The touch was not harsh, nor anywhere inappropriate; simply meant for moving his limbs around. Yet he had dropped his stick in shock. “Here,” the male said, “you want to keep your feet shoulder width apart, and lower yourself slightly as if you were sitting up on a high stool. There, good. Feet must be straight, pointing forward, bringing power and balance into your legs.”

Dean still couldn’t breathe. A _fae_ was touching him! Talking to him! When would the killing blow come? Would he steal him away, cook him up before eating him for dinner? Would he enslave him, perhaps keep him as a pet? Or would he put him on the front lines of his army to be used as a distraction to lessen the deaths of the real soldiers? No matter the course of action, he was sure he would die.

“All right. Yes. Now put your arms up.” He now grabbed hold of his arms, and Dean took in a sharp breath. Though, the touch was gentle, perhaps even kind. No, impossible. This creature did not know kindness. “You want to keep one held up, angled slightly away from your body. This one you use to block blows. It protects you, and from this position you can easily lift it to protect your face, or lower it to protect your abdomen. The other arm should be lower, pulled back slightly. You can alternate which hands you use if we’re talking hand-to-hand combat—here make a fist—keeping you from tiring on one side too quickly, and giving you the advantage of coming at your enemy from both sides. And you see here?” He lightly patted Dean’s elbow, and Dean realized he had not left the position he’d been placed in, too terrified to move. “With this arm farther back, when you reach out to punch someone, it gathers momentum, but only if you keep your elbow and wrist straight.” The male backed up slightly, taking his hands off him. “Here, try it. Punch me.”

“Wh-what?” Dean questioned, voice small in the otherwise empty forest.

“Hit me,” the fae male commanded. 

That voice _was_ commanding. It was the voice of a leader, the voice of one with power. Dean found he could not resist. He stepped out with one foot, and drove a punch into the fae male’s gut. The satisfying sound of a fist hitting the center of a body met Dean’s ears. To his dismay, the male had not moved even an inch.

Dean faltered.

The fae crouched down, getting on his level. “It’s all right, Dean,” he told him. “I am stronger than you, able to withstand much more, but with practice, you will be able to protect yourself.”

“H-h-how do you kn-know my name?” Dean asked, struggling to get the words out.

“That story is long,” he said. “But perhaps in a decade or two, I will tell it to you.”

A gate of golden light opened, and Dean shielded his suddenly-watering eyes against it, blinking something fierce.

“Farewell, Dean,” the fae male said, and then he made to walk into the light. Before disappearing into it he turned, saying as if in afterthought, “By the way, my name is Castiel.” 

Castiel stepped into the light, which receded behind him. Dean was alone in the darkened woods.

✥

_**NINETEEN YEARS LATER** _

Sam coughed, blood coming up on his lips. Dean just held his hand, bowing his head. Sam was unconscious, but still he said to him, voice rough, throat aching with emotion, “Come on, Sammy. Hold on for me. You’ll be okay.”

Mary was out trying to get herbs for him, and she was desperate, saying she would not lose another one of her boys. After their father had died, she had attempted to be a good mother, but had no longer possessed the will. The spark had gone out, and Dean had tried to light it once more. He’d given everything for her, for Sam. It hadn’t been enough.

Somehow, with Sam being sick, she seemed to have that spark again, that fight. She was going to be there for him.

Dean searched their little cabin for a cloth. He found one resting over the edge of the washbasin—which was empty. He groaned, knowing they needed more water.

Dean put the cloth over his shoulder, took the washbasin, and went outside into the cold with it. He forwent putting on a cloak. He wouldn’t be out there for long. He went to the spigot located in the back of their cabin. The metal was cold as he worked it up and down to get the water from the cistern. It seemed to burn his hand.

_Doesn’t matter._

Water splashed over his hands. Dean couldn’t do this gently. He was breathing hard, sweat on his forehead despite the cold.

_Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam_

Praise Ilvasar, that even this little bit of water would help.

Doubtful.

Dean went back in out of the cold, put the washbasin down near Sam, and then soaked the cloth. Water dripped in little pitter-patters as he wrung it out. He used it to clean the blood off of Sam, and then put the clean part of it on his blazing hot forehead.

Sam’s breaths rattled in his chest.

Dean stayed kneeling by the bed, and put his head down against Sam, one hand resting across his brother’s stomach. He knew that with his arm like this, he was supposed to be able to feel Sam breathing. The abdomen seemed to hold deep breaths. Sam couldn’t breathe deeply enough for them to reach lower.

His brother whimpered, and when Dean moved his head higher, he could feel Sam’s too-slow heartbeat. His breaths rattled, and squeaked. A tear fell from one of Dean’s eyes, rolling down his cheek to land on Sam’s cotton tunic.

Dean held on to his shoulder, fingers kneading, trying to soothe.

“Sammy…” he murmured.

The door banged open, and in an instant, Dean—though exhausted—rose and settled into a stance he’d somehow learned but possessed no memory of being taught. He relaxed, heaving out a breath at the revelation that it was just his mother.

Their eyes met, and unspoken, horrid words passed between them.

Dean collapsed to his knees, reaching out for Sam’s hand.

His mother came to hold his hand, and despite the trials of their past, he allowed the touch.

“What must we do?” Dean murmured.

“There’s nothing.”

Dean pulled his hand away. A part of him wished to argue, wished to fall into the habits he’d developed years ago. Instead, he went into his room, and donned the jacket and cloak he’d left resting on his bed. He grabbed his leather gloves by the door, and pulled his hood up, ready to set out.

His mother grabbed him.

“You can’t go,” she said to him, pleading.

Dean found his words were lost to him, that he could not speak. Instead of soothing his mother, or confiding in her with his plan, he shrugged free of her grip, and walked out into the cold evening.

Dean wandered for quite some time, searching for any roots that could have survived in all the snow. There were rumors of magic in the land, so surely there would be some.

His search proved fruitless. Dean had wandered at least two miles from the cabin, the sun now beginning to set. The sky was painted in red, bleeding into the gray darkness.

Cold, shivering, Dean knelt in the snow, holding himself upright against the thick base of a tree. His hands were frigid despite the gloves protecting his skin. The ice bit at his nose, his lips, and the wind made a good many attempts to tear his hood off.

He held onto it with his free hand, breaths suddenly coming hard and fast.

The now-familiar ache in his throat built up, and in pain-filled moments his vision began to blur, the world fading away from him.

There was nothing he could do. Nothing at all.

Sam was surely meant for the grave.

With that thought pounding inside his head, he rose, and walked, even as he lost all track of time, all understanding of his body. Dark had settled upon the world when he came to, when his tears dried. Stars blinked out above the bare trees.

_Ilvasar, please._

No. Hope for his brother was not something Ilvasar could grant him, if Ilvasar even truly existed. Religion had always seemed rather weak and feeble to Dean. Were gods and powerful spirits truly watching over them? Or were the human superstitions all for naught?

However, Dean had begun to burn prayers for the gods some months ago, searching for anything that could help Sam.

Ilvasar was a common god to be used as a curse. However, he would not help here. He didn’t have the powers, did not know how. So he looked up, and he prayed to Neia, the goddess of all things natural in the world. The legends told of her proclivity for healing. Perhaps…

Dean attempted to reach her, to believe.

_Please, my brother is dying. Neia. I beg of you._

_Sam will die._

_Sam will die._

_Please…_

_Sam will die. He will perish and be taken to the afterlife, perhaps even into a realm of darkness._

_Neia…_

A tortured scream left Dean, and he climbed to his feet. He kicked at the snow, and then drew his arm back in a fist. When he punched the tree, the bark tore at the leather glove of his right hand. His knuckles throbbed. Yet, he wished to take his anger out on the tree once more.

Fist raised, about to deliver another blow, the realization that he should put his anger and fear into use came upon him. What would screaming and crying in the dark and cold accomplish? Such a manifestation of emotions would never help.

Hand throbbing, ice cold reaching through the tear in his glove, and radiating against him to numb his face, he birthed an idea.

Was the idea a terrible, and possibly perilous one?

Yes.

No other options had presented themselves.

Beginning to hunger, his stomach growling from missing dinner, Dean looked up at the stars, determining his position.

Good. He had already unintentionally been traveling in the correct direction. All he must do was continue north in a straight line.

He walked, keeping his cloak wrapped securely about himself, raising his feet up high so as to not get stuck in the snow. His breaths were harsh in his chest, his thighs beginning to ache. Still, onward he went.

Dean was not sure how he was aware of crossing the Border. Perhaps it was the slight tingle that had traveled down his spine. Or perhaps it was the way the very air seemed different, more… pure.

Now what must he do?

Dean knew not.

He walked. Hopeless.

Cold and exhaustion gripped him, and he gave in, lying beneath the low bough of a fir.

✥

The tugging in Castiel’s gut alerted him to Dean’s presence. He had crossed the Border. But why? Why did Castiel then sense a dark dread, and exhaustion?

These feelings had awoken him, and he did not bother to dress—only grabbing his cloak, and shoving his feet into some boots—before fixing himself on Dean’s location. Light opened up in his chambers, a tear in the physical plane of this world. He stepped through it.

Where he was transported to was a forest a few miles from the Border. Dean had been traveling north, yet he would have never reached Castiel’s territory that way—if that had truly been his goal.

He slept beneath a tree, his face pale against the light of Castiel’s portal, his lips blue. His hair, which had darkened to brown with age, had been swept away from his face.

With his chest aching despite his immortality, Castiel rushed to him, and cradled his head in one hand, hoisting him up into his lap. He wrapped an arm around him, and found Dean was limp. Lifeless.

Not even daring to hope, he put two fingers to Dean’s neck, feeling for life, for blood flowing through him.

Yes!

There it was.

Faint.

Castiel could not bring beings back from the dead, but he could heal. It was an ability he’d acquired from his father.

Those two fingers traveled to Dean’s frozen lips, almost pressing into his mouth. Closing his eyes, he reached into the well of power inside of him, reached into that strong, viperous glow and warmth. Light played against Castiel’s eyelids. In mere moments, Dean’s breath warmed his fingers.

Pleased that Dean would not die at this moment, Castiel hoisted him up, carrying him over his shoulder, and he took him through the portal.

✥

Softness caressed Dean, enveloping him. He was sunken into something plush, furs layered above him. Despite this, the outward comfort could not penetrate the aches in his body.

Eyelids heavy, feeling as though he could barely open them, Dean breathed deep, attempting to fall back into sweet, blanketing sleep.

Fear suddenly spiked through him, and he tried to sit up. He hardly succeeded, holding himself up with a shaking arm, his other arm across his aching ribs.

Hands were on him now, and Dean tried to push them off, rip them away from him.

He found he could not do so. There was an iron strength in those hands.

As Dean took in the room, the white, gold, and silver coloring of it, his head became a place rife with fear.

He had passed through the Border.

These were not the chambers of a human. There was something distinctly _in_ human about them. Perhaps it was the delicate, arching designs, the natural lines to everything that put the rough angles of humanity’s creations to shame. Silver and gold arced and swirled through the white of the room, creating a beautiful, unfathomable pattern.

Dean dared to look up into the face near his. Dared to confront the truth that he had been captured by a fae, and one who was surely male, the size of his hands giving him away.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean started, gaze traveling over that strong jaw, those pink lips, the nearly sharp cheekbones, and the big, beautiful eyes. The fae’s skin was tan, hair dark and ruffled. It did not serve to hide his pointed ears.

Did he have sharp fangs?

Why did it matter? This fae knew his name.

This fae had captured him.

Dean was plunged into the stomach-churning sensation of vulnerability, and then a new realization came upon him. He looked down to assess the truth. Of course. He was naked.

“How do you know my name, and what did you do to me!” Dean growled, shocked by the strength in his voice.

The fae male just pushed him down into the bed, Dean struggling all the while. He then set himself on the bed beside Dean, pulling the furs up against his chest, covering him once more.

“You were dying,” his captor told him.

Fear pumped through Dean’s blood.

Yet, those eyes, that face, was so beautiful. Strength lay beneath his night clothes. A deeper part of Dean that tended to crave someone’s touch, was very pleased with this situation. However, it was not the one ruling his mind.

“The cold had gotten to you,” he explained. “You were blue, frost-bitten. Your bodily functions had slowed. Death had been upon you, so close that I feared I hadn’t reached you in time.”

Dean glared, and this strong, stupid, self-absorbed, repugnant being—

 _No, Dean,_ he chastised himself. _You require his help. For Sam._

_He saved you._

_He can save your brother._

—the fae male removed his hands, leaving Dean propped up on plush pillows.

“You still haven’t answered how you know my name,” Dean said.

The fae frowned, tilting his head in a way that seemed to signal confusion.

“You truly don’t know?” he questioned.

“Know what?”

The male reached two fingers out towards him, and Dean attempted to shy away.

Useless. Those warm fingers rested against his forehead with a gentle touch.

Dean was carried away. Away from the bed, the elaborate and lavish chambers that were so hauntingly beautiful. Away from the palace he now understood he was in. Away from time, from the present. He went back, and back…

Till he was just a little boy standing in a forest, shaking with fear as he raised a stick, preparing to fight the fae before him. He was all dark hair, and bright eyes, so tall, so large.

The fae spoke, positioned his body, _taught_ him. Dean recognized the stance he was directed through, a stance that had helped him when he had enlisted in the army. The army had not brought much good, seeing as any attempts to fight across the Border had killed troops in droves, yet Dean had learned to fight. With his fists, with knives, a sword, a staff, a spear. Before he’d become a deserter upon hearing of Sam’s illness, he’d been training with the axe, and even with a bow.

Had… Had this being truly helped him with this?

Why couldn’t Dean—

As the fae male turned to leave through a gate of golden light, he turned back, a slight smile turning up his lips. _By the way, my name is Castiel._

Dean was rushed back through time, through the world, as if a rope had suddenly been pulled taut, the strength of some ethereal creature reeling him back in. Dean strained against it, head pounding.

A voice rang through the travels of his mind: _Don’t fight it. It’s all right._

Implicit trust was born in Dean, and he breathed deeply.

His mind returned to its natural place inside him. His vision was blurred, but in seconds, it righted itself.

“Castiel,” Dean breathed.

Castiel’s smile in response to his words was gentle, warm. It was not what he had expected of a fae.

“So where am I?” Dean asked, attempting to sit up once more. He shied away from Castiel’s hands, though the strength in them had begun to stoke a fire deep in him. “I saw this is a palace. Are you… Are you a royal of some sort?”

“I’m a highprince of the kingdom of Taivakel,” Castiel informed. “We are on top of a mountain, and you are leagues from the Border.”

“All right. Why am I naked?”

“I had to warm you. Your clothes were wet and cold.”

Dean saw the sense in that, but still, he was slightly uncomfortable. Perhaps not in a way he should’ve been. Staring at Castiel, his gut began to throb.

He attempted to banish the treacherous thoughts from his head. He smothered them under prolonged pain, and the coming of grief.

Words spilled from his mouth, tone aching with the very love he held for his brother, “Castiel, you have to help me. My brother Sam is dying of sickness. I crossed the Border to find someone to save him, to…” He swallowed roughly, and forged on, “To make a deal.”

A sultry darkness flickered in Castiel’s eyes, and the grin on his face transformed into something feral.

Dean’s mouth went dry, and he tried to swallow, but found his throat was just as parched.

“Cas—” he began to ask before the dryness of his throat deadened his words.

“Yes, we can make a deal. But you cannot back out of it. Whatever we come to, you must follow through accordingly. Betraying me, attempting to break the deal, it will result in your untimely death.”

Dean found the strength to speak. He asked, his voice rough, gravelly, “You can save him?”

“Yes, I can save him.” Castiel pulled away from him, getting off the bed. He began to pace, a hand to his chin. “But what do I desire?”

Dean wanted to hide in the furs, pretend he was no longer there despite the deadly allure of Castiel.

“Oh, yes. Yes, of course.”

Castiel turned to Dean, eyes bright, and Dean gulped, holding the furs to himself, kicking himself away as Castiel crawled over him on the bed. He held himself up with his hands and knees, and Dean’s breaths were shallow as he stared up at this being, as he felt the pressure where their bodies touched. Dean imagined he could hear his heartbeat. How was that possible? All fae had hearts of stone, surely. It was why they could not die.

Those eyes seemed to penetrate him, and Dean’s body began to betray him, heat building up in between his legs.

Oh, Ilvasar. Neia. Jhana. No. _Spirits, help me._

Castiel lowered his face to his, their lips nearly touching, nose brushing against his own. Everything in Dean begged and pleaded for he himself to reach up, to press their lips together. To discover whether the stone was in his entire body, if the dreaded evil could truly live in him.

Castiel breathed deep, and Dean shifted, hand lowering to hide his growing arousal.

“I will heal your brother for you, Dean Winchester. In return, I ask only for your firstborn.”

That was it?

Dean had expected to bleed for him, to become enslaved, to be at the mercy of this fae.

For the moment, sacrificing his firstborn did not seem like an evil act. He did not have a child, and surely wouldn’t for years. Dean was not the kind of man who gave women a reason to stay and settle down with him—his recently broken engagement was testament to that. As for his other tastes… They could not produce children.

He’d heard rumors however that when a human and a fae... became close in that way, that despite being the same sex, they could create a child… somehow. Perhaps it was just rumor, but still, Dean found himself asking, wanting to hold up his end of the bargain as studiously as possible, “When will we begin?”

Castiel pulled back slightly. “I beg pardon?”

“Creating a child,” Dean added, cheeks reddening, gaze traveling away from those penetrating eyes. They then found the thickness of his body, and his own body continued to betray him. “I… I heard that… a human man, and a fae male can…”

Castiel sat back, and sidled off of Dean. He rested back on his heels. “Ah, so you’ve been preached to by Dawn’s Children.”

Dean nodded.

“They pander lies, they meddle where they should not, but that is one truth they properly acknowledge. However, my people and I try to keep it close to us.”

“Why?” Dean found himself asking.

“It is thought of as blasphemous for our races to mix.”

Dean wished to nod in agreement, but he was still frozen, naked under the pile of furs.

“However,” Castiel went on, a sensual haze darkening his eyes, “I find your presence quite persuasive. I am not averse to the idea of making you mine.”

Highprince Castiel grinned.

✥

Castiel had the strong urge to dress Dean up as he saw fit, to parade this human around as his own. He was. He would be. The idea of creating life with Dean Winchester coaxed a thrill in him that he could barely contain. Was it because of the taboo acts that would take place? The betrayal of a stifling culture? The touch of someone forbidden? No matter, he wished to let out the thrill, the rush. To let it out in luxurious ways that this human wouldn’t even be capable of comprehending.

Yet, Dean ordered him around. He ordered Castiel to get him clothes, to leave him alone as he dressed. Made him heal his aches, get him food and refreshment. Now, he came out of Castiel’s room, and crossed his arms as he stood across from him.

Dean was dressed in fine leathers and furs of mostly black. Castiel resisted licking his bottom lip when he looked at him.

“First things first, you are going to hold up your end of the bargain. I’m not quite sure how much time my brother has left, but when I went in search of something, anything, to help him he was… He must not have long.

Dean lowered his head slightly at those words, blinking fiercely.

Perhaps Castiel should have feigned ignorance and pretended he hadn’t seen that look, but he went to Dean, and held him by his shoulders in what he hoped was a reassuring grip. Dean was an inch taller than him, it would seem, but that didn’t mean that Castiel couldn’t do as he wished.

He lowered himself slightly, head tilted upward, so he could meet Dean’s tearful gaze.

“I will save him,” Castiel promised.

✥

Memories rekindled themselves in Dean’s mind when Castiel seemed to create a glowing tear in reality. He had been hesitant to step through it, so the highprince had grabbed him by his upper arm, and hauled him through with him.

Dean found that he did not possess the will to object. With Castiel’s strong hand on him, Dean felt as if he had just started living, as if his previous life was in dull colors and darker shades.

He worried. Yes, he worried. He had given himself to this fae highprince, and he had done so with hardly a thought.

Yet, Dean would do it all over again. He would have given up more if he had to, he would have become a very slave to the highprince who had saved him if that was what was required.

For now, it seemed as if Castiel was content to fulfill his end of the bargain.

The light had taken them to Dean’s family’s cabin, which now seemed too small and drab, even after only seeing a few rooms in the palace of Taivakel. His life, a human life, could not compare to the very being holding onto him so tightly. The heat his touch brought to life in Dean’s stomach was something he had never felt before. Even with all the girls he had been with in the village, and the few boys, Castiel was already unlike any other. Dean’s betrothal to Lisa now seemed far and in the past, despite it only being broken off a fortnight ago. She didn’t matter. Only Sammy mattered. Only… Dare he say it?

No, he could not.

He _would_ not.

Dean was better than that.

_If you are, then why did you offer yourself up to him so willingly? Are you that desperate for someone to fill the void?_

Dean tried to push that thought down, but it festered inside of him. His black, fur-lined cloak billowed in the winter wind whispering through the trees, as did Castiel’s.

What he was wearing was still astonishing. He knew his clothes had not been anything special, and at times were very close to falling apart, but now, he felt regal. How was it that he felt such a thing from clothes he did not belong in? These were the clothes of a fae, not of a man. Clothes of royalty.

Dean was no such thing.

Castiel took his hand—which was protected with a black leather glove, just like Dean’s—and hurried over to the cabin with him. No light could be found inside despite the growing dark.

Dark?

Had it not been day when he’d awoken?

Yes, but he had assumed it was morning, not taking time to look at the positioning of the sun.

He swallowed roughly. Oh, Ilvasar, he’d been away a whole day.

Where was his mother?

Was Sam…?

Was he…?

Dean shrugged himself free of Castiel’s grip, and rushed towards his home. He flung the door open, barely daring to see what awaited him.

Darkness shrouded the common area where Sam’s bed had been set up so it would be easier to keep an eye on him. His mother would have had a fire going, or at least have some candles lit. She wasn’t here.

“Sam?” he called out, voice shaking.

He knew his brother couldn’t answer, yet it felt better to speak than to stand there silently.

A hand clasped down on his shoulder, and he jumped. He turned to look at Castiel.

“Do not tarry, Dean. Your brother still lives, but is approaching the veil.”

Paying closer attention to sound, he heard his brother’s harsh breathing. He rushed in, tripped on a stool, cursed, and then stumbled to Sam’s side. As Castiel entered, a golden glow was lit upon his hand, brighter than any lantern. For a moment, Dean had to shield his eyes.

Dean held his brother’s hand, and brushed his sweat-dampened hair back from his face. He was in different night clothes, and he looked as if he’d been bathed. So his mother had been here. Where was she now? Why was she gone?

Perhaps it didn’t matter.

“I’m here now, Sammy. It’ll be all right. I’m going to look after you.”

Still on his knees, Dean turned, and he swallowed roughly as he looked up at Highprince Castiel, as he took in the ethereal features that would never be touched with age, the pointed ears, the dark hair, those sensuous lips hiding sharp canines, the beautiful blue eyes that had seen countless lifetimes of men wax and wane.

“Please, help him.”

Castiel bowed his head in deference, startling Dean. “As you wish,” he told him.

Before long, Castiel was kneeling beside Dean, and he had one of his glowing palms pressed against Sam’s chest. The glow intensified, and Sam’s breathing seemed to falter, his body arching up into that large hand.

Dean gripped Castiel’s arm.

“Stop it. What are you doing to him? What’s happening?”

Castiel just gripped Dean by his hair, and pulled him off of him.

“Quiet. I’m healing him.”

Castiel closed his eyes, and his lips were parted as he focused. His breaths came heavy, and Dean could just see those fangs poking out.

A darkness seemed to flow up into Castiel’s hand, nearly blotting out the light. It twisted up his arm, where it penetrated him. He groaned, and then his body slumped; he let out a protracted sigh. Sam’s body relaxed, and his breaths sounded even for the first time in two months.

Oh, praise Jhana! He was alright!

Smiling, tears dripping from his eyes, Dean held Sam.

Suddenly, Castiel and his light were gone, and Sam’s eyes opened. Before Dean could wonder about the whereabouts of the highprince, Sam met his gaze.

“Dean?”

“I’m here, Sammy. I took care of you. You’re all better.”

“How?”

Dean leaned down, placing a kiss upon his brother’s brow. “The answer matters not. You’re all right now. You’re healed.”

“Where’s Mother?” Sam asked, now sitting up on his own, searching the cabin.

Castiel chose that time to make his reappearance. Light shot out from his hands, making both Dean and Sam flinch, and in moments, the cold fireplace was a beacon of roaring warmth.

Sam kicked himself backwards on the bed.

“D-Dean? Who is that?”

Dean was given no chance to answer. Instead, Castiel informed them, “Your mother will be along shortly.”

“And you…” Sam began to ask, then swallowed roughly. His wide eyes traveled between Dean and Castiel. Then, his face softened, but not into an expression of admiration or content. There was sadness there. “And you made a deal with him,” Sam finished.

“Yes, I did, Sammy.”

Sam ripped his hand from Dean’s.

“How could you?”

“You were dying!”

“What did he ask of you in return? To be his pet? His whore?”

“Sammy, I’m alright.”

Castiel came over, Sam flinching back. “Your brother has offered up his firstborn. He intends to have me collect shortly.”

Sam’s brows furrowed together. “How? Dean’s not—”

“No, he’s not. It appears he would like to do this with me. I shall be helping him.”

Disgust painted his brother’s features, tension coiling in his limbs.

“How?”

“The details are not of import,” Castiel answered. “What you need to know is that your brother came into this willingly, and that he will be all right. I swear to you, Sam, I will not harm him, and I vow to keep him safe.”

“How do I know I can trust you?” Sam accused.

Castiel started pulling the glove on his right hand off. With the leather off, Dean saw a large ring on his fourth finger he hadn’t taken note of before. The gem set in the silver metal was darkened and smooth. Castiel worked the ring off his finger, and held it out for Sam to take. Hesitantly, Sam held his hand out, and Castiel dropped the ring into his anxiously waiting palm.

“Here,” he told him. “This ring is connected to another that I have in my palace. Rub your thumb over it whenever you wish to see how your brother fares.”

“What if you hide the other ring?” Sam asked. “What if this one is not real? What if you will pretend that Dean is safe?”

“I like you, boy,” Castiel commented. “You certainly think of all the loopholes.” Sam just gave him a grim look in return. Dean went back to holding his hand, and his brother let him. “How about, one week out of every month, I let you, and perhaps your mother, come stay with me to see how Dean fares?”

Despite having been unconscious and bogged down with sickness for so long, Sam’s mind seemed just as sharp as ever.

“And what do you want in return?”

Castiel brushed a hand across Dean’s cheek, his stomach fluttering at his touch.

“I will get to keep Dean.”

“What? No!”

“It’s all in the price of saving you,” Dean told him. “I think it an honorable deed. Please, let me do this. I will be safe. Besides, it was about time I moved out of the cabin anyway. I’m a little too old to be living with my family. Perhaps it’s time to make my own way.”

“You won’t be able to!”

“Sam.”

“Tied to him, you won’t—”

Dean took hold of Sam’s face, looking deep into his hazel eyes.

“I will. I wanted this. I did this for you. You’re”—Dean choked on the next words he wished to speak, and his vision blurred, a tear rolling down his cheek—“...damned Inenua! You’re alive.”

“Dean, you know you should not speak of that place.”

“What?” he asked with a shrug. “You know it’s not real.”

The silence of Castiel beside him was deafening.

Dean looked up at him, and Castiel just winced.

He swallowed roughly. “Ah, well. Wonderful. I suppose I always liked fire anyway.”

“Hush now,” Castiel commanded.

Dean had opened his mouth to say something else, but now he found he had no choice but to obey. The sheer power in Castiel’s tone was something that he was sure no being could ignore.

“All right, Sammy, I have to go,” Dean said when words came to him once more.

“You’ll leave me? Just like—just like Dad?”

“You know it’s not like that. Besides, you’re old enough to be out on your own. We’ll see each other often. Please, live your life. Don’t waste away in my shadow.”

Sam nodded, having difficulty looking at Dean. Then, he drew him into a bone-crushing hug. Dean held him with just as much strength.

“Bitch,” Dean quietly called him, as was their proper way of saying goodbye to each other.

Sam laughed against him. “Twit.”

Long seconds passed before Dean was able to pull himself from Sam’s grip.

“Bye, Sammy.”

“See you soon, Dean. What of Mother?”

He waved his hand absently. “Ah, she’ll be fine. As will you.”

He turned to the highprince who still held onto him, the highprince who might actually possess a real heart. “I suppose it’s time you took me back to the palace.”

A golden tear opened in the room already flooded with light and warmth. Dean blinked his eyes against it.

“Wait,” Sam began, standing and taking his first steps from the bed in months. “Your ring,” he offered to Castiel.

Castiel smiled at him, and it was a smile that Dean hadn’t ever expected from a fae. What he saw there was…

Kindness.

He barely noticed anything else besides the light Castiel had the ability to create.

“Keep it.”

Once through the tear in reality, they were back in Castiel’s chambers.

Immediately, the highprince shoved Dean against a wall. Perhaps being fearful would have been the reasonable reaction, but Dean had never been known for being reasonable. His breaths left him as wanting groans, and he fought against Castiel for only a moment, testing his strength.

Yes, Castiel was far superior.

Dean swallowed roughly, and asked, voice already a low gravel, “Not going to show me off to the lords and ladies first?”

As an answer, Castiel growled, and pulled Dean’s head back. Throat exposed, Dean barely dared to breathe. The highprince began to lavish his neck with gentle kisses, a press of lips against skin that was soon becoming more insistent. When he began to suck over his pulse point, it was as if a string of pleasure had been drawn taut throughout his body, and someone had just yanked on it, making it shudder with wanton desire. He moaned, finding himself weak, needy, at this fae’s mercy.

Castiel held Dean’s arms above his head, so he had nowhere to go when he felt Castiel’s fangs at his neck.

Again, his reaction was far from reasonable. In fact, his body was beginning to ache with arousal.

“Do it,” Dean begged.

Castiel tilted his head up, stroking a thumb along the column of Dean’s throat. Pleasure trailed through him.

“Hmm, if you wish for it that badly, then no, I will not give you what you desire.”

“Then what—“

Castiel pressed his lips to Dean’s, and Dean kissed back. The world faded away into a realm of white light. Castiel remained pressed up against him, yet his lips were traveling lower as he began to undress him.

Dean felt weightless, and yet, the white all around him did not falter.

Breathless, Dean asked, “Are we in Celnene?” Celnene was one of the afterlives, the one Dean wished to pass into after death took him.

Castiel grinned, a dark, seductive laugh leaving him as he straightened.

“We’re in your mind.”

Dean pulled back, furrowing his brow as he frowned at him in confusion.

“I… I don’t understand.”

Castiel let Dean step away, yet he took the space apart as an opportunity to begin undressing. First he unpinned his cloak. It fell away, as if it had never existed. In fact, when Dean looked down he found no true source of stability. What were they standing on?

Overwhelmed, dizzy, he began to feel like he was falling, and would never stop.

Dean suddenly found himself in Castiel’s strong arms, and he panted as he looked at him.

“It sure would be nice if my mind at least knew how to create a floor.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you, Dean.”

A bright flash of pain seared from his throat down to his collarbone. It greatly stirred his fading arousal. Then, of all things, he felt a body pressing against him, hardness fervently grinding in between his legs, finding Dean’s own—

Yet, Castiel was only holding him in here.

“Castiel?” Dean asked.

The highprince swiped a thumb across Dean’s cheekbone. “I am about to show you the proper way to make love. Making love is not just an act of the body, it is one of the mind, and we fae can embody that. In fact, that is how I am going to put a child in you.”

Dean groaned at those words.

Castiel ground against him in the physical realm, and in the realm of Dean’s mind they were suddenly… _ONE_. Gold flared through Dean, caressing his very insides. The sensations seemed to shatter him, burning him all over. When he opened his mouth to scream, pleasure took hold of him there. It went into his mouth, into his throat. Dean breathed in the very essence of Castiel, and he learned in every part of his being that Castiel’s heart pumped blood like any living being. A whole world burst behind his eyelids, and Dean never wanted this fae male to leave him. Dean himself would surely never leave him.

He was in Celnene.

This was more than just something he had agreed to to save his brother. This was what he wanted.

Great Ilvasar, and Neia, and Jhana above, this was what he was sure he had always wanted, whether he’d known it or not.

Castiel claimed him, and in turn, Dean claimed Castiel.

Somehow, when the act was over, Dean could feel a part of Castiel’s consciousness in him, mixing with his own. He was lying down, groaning, tired and aching all over. Castiel was up against him, bare skin nearly burning everywhere they touched.

“So that’s how—” Dean began to ask.

Castiel kissed the back of his head. “Yes, which is one of the reasons we tend to not interact with humans. The child you will birth for me will be more powerful than even myself.”

Dean twisted his head back to look at him, the soft furs of the bed caressing his skin as he did so. When had they gotten to the bed?

“Then why? Why agree to this?”

“You agreed first.”

Dean grinned at him. “Trying to win against you is folly, I assume?”

“I think you would find trying to do so a most unfortunate plight. Now, sleep.”

At his words, the tiredness and exhaustion Dean had been feeling since the completion of their coupling simmered to the surface.

“Sleep,” Castiel murmured, holding Dean close. He kissed the back of his head once more, and began to caress him, touch gentle against his chest. “Sleep.”

Dean began to let that comforting darkness take him, knowing in his heart that his brother was saved, and that he was where he was supposed to be. Not only in Taivakel, or in this realm. With Castiel. His own little slice of Celnene.

With memories of meeting Castiel in his childhood dragging him down to sleep, warmth enveloped him. So this was where Dean’s life had been leading him.

Now, all he could do was wait, and birth his firstborn—the babe that would become Castiel’s.

In sealing this bargain, even Dean had become Castiel’s.

What Castiel didn’t know yet, was that Dean was going to make him his. A fae highprince all to himself.

Once more, Castiel murmured, voice soft in his ear, “ _Sleep._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Castiel - a fae highprince  
> Taivakel - Castiel's kingdom  
> Aardess - Corvalend's kingdom  
> Corvalend - a highprince, one of Castiel's friends  
> Ilvasar - ruling god of human folk religion  
> Neia - nature goddess in human folk religion  
> Jhana - minor god in human folk religion, daughter of Ilvasar and Neia, grants good luck  
> Inenua - one of the afterlives (similar to Hell)  
> Celnene - one of the afterlives (similar to Heaven)  
> The Border - border imbued with magic that designates the separation between the two peoples  
> Dawn's Children - Cult-like Fae religion in which the goal of the members is to merge with the human realm


End file.
